In the Morning Sun
by ReichenbachFalls
Summary: Irene Adler liked to be prepared. Even when preparation came at a price for Sherlock. / "No. No, I'm not like other people. I hurt others in extreme ways. And you're different. Because every sense of order and objectivity I've persevered to maintain in my life is dismantled when I'm with you. If that happens, there's no knowing what I would do."


**In The Morning Sun**

She had been hiding in London for quite some time, but something about that morning felt right. She was ready, and felt more so knowing he wasn't.

Before she crossed the street from her place in the shadows she considered knocking on the door but felt exposed at the thought of being on the open street in broad daylight. So the window it was.

After lifting it open, she listened attentively for any small sighs, rustling clothes or clanking dishes. But the flat was perfectly still, and only the distant sound of a bird's chirps seeped in from somewhere on the other side.

Irene carefully swung her legs over the window pane and buried her bare feet into the carpet. Her heels were clamped in her hands after she had taken them off to be able to move with more agility.

With a deep breath, she slowly began to shuffle down the hallway.

She recognized John's room immediately, with its neatly made bed and wooden desk, empty save for a lamp and two books. On the wall beside the left side of the bed was a framed collection of medals he had received for his military service. The closet and drawers were all tightly shut, and Irene imagined his clothes were as tidily folded as the bed covers.

She passed the lavatory and extra closet without giving them much thought and headed downstairs.

Her stomach tightened at the thought of the hundreds of possible sights she could be met with down there. She had been waiting for this- thinking about that living room and the kitchen and the doorway and the mantelpiece and even the bloody skull portrait on the wall with the outdated wallpaper.

Maybe they had refurnished it. She didn't like the idea of that; there was something comforting and homey about the random, scattered items and dustiness. It was quaint, and renewed and refreshed it would simply become generic. Besides, though immaculate was Sherlock's choice in dress, there wasn't a chance he would keep his living quarters uncluttered for long.

Irene kept her gaze cast downwards until she reached the last step of the stairs, though from her peripheral vision she had already seen what was a certainty now: the place was unchanged.

The fading image she had been clinging onto these past two years of 221B Baker Street was almost identical. Only the shadows were not so dark. She had forgotten how wide and transparent the windows were. They had a wide capacity for letting in light.

She walked around, running her fingers against the shelves and book spines; the papers, pens and oddly superfluous amount of printers; the couch and the chairs; and finally, what little was left of the kitchen counter tops- Sherlock's chemistry equipment and the usual kitchen appliances covered most of the green surface, though Irene thought perhaps it was better than way. Who knew what damage was being hidden underneath?

The angles of the image in her head sharpened- she managed to replace every uncertainty about the layout of the place in her head. Finally, she took a deep breath and sunk down into the boxy leather chair by the fireplace.

The trip to London had been exhausting, and though she had more than a week of sleep since she got back, she still felt as if the weariness had not left her. It wasn't a mystery as to why. Irene Adler was never one for denying the roots of emotional conflict, and she knew that the heaviness of her unremitting trips around the world was it. It hadn't been the foreign places or foreign people, but the threat of death looming over her head. It had been the minuteness of the hope to ever return to a cycle that resembled normality. Everything was unpredictable like before, but it wasn't thrilling. No goose bumps- only harsh shocks to the nerves and angry faces that kept her nights restless.

She only found comfort in two things.

One was the abundant amount of fags to inhale and exhale in a room, or even better, outside on the balconies, where the she could better see the white smoke roll out of her mouth and into the air. It was soothing and hypnotizing and it made her feel numb.

Second was Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes, she unintentionally indulged in quite compromising, explicit images of him, usually in her dreams. Who could blame her? Sexual endeavors had been nonexistent since a little before she met him, and it no longer mattered to pursue them with anyone else. It wasn't that she was particularly set on having sex with him. The image of anyone else's bodily structure and deftness, or of anyone else brushing their fingers against her skin, was insipid and colorless.

She thought more about London, and everything they had done there, together. She thought of John too, but felt that it was the same thing as thinking about Sherlock, because the two really were parts of one whole.

She thought most about Karachi. Karachi, where he had sent her off with a faux passport to Germany, where they had no time to savor each other's words for long because, before they knew it, they were running. Running, falling, pulling each other along. But there _had_ been words. The night of her rescue, there had been many words. She thought about them often now, tried to make sense of them when she hadn't fully grasped them then. Sometimes she fidgeted and held her chest at the thought of how she'd never been as intimate with a person as she had been with Sherlock Holmes. Her heart was completely bared that night, and she blurted out confessions that she wasn't sure she would've made when not under the effect of the adrenaline high and the desperation for something as warm as him after so many days of living in fear and isolation.

In short, he was the small silver lining that had worried her and kept her going. Mainly the latter, because the former was only the worry that he would disappear forever.

Of course, it turned out to be a worry worth having- her flame had gone out at the headlines "FRAUDULENT DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE." The ashes fell outside the ashtray, onto the balconies, the carpets, the bed sheets. She had almost set a whole flat on fire when she disregarded the embers that fell onto the tail of the curtains.

Her assistant had confiscated the fags after that.

She stayed in bed for a few weeks after she no longer had anything to smoke. She never slept, only fell in and out of consciousness. Her assistant urged her to do _something_. Irene reassured her that this was voluntary and that she had control. She always had control. Luckily, it was only on rare occasions that she remained immobile, and that had been a rare occasion.

She pushed herself out of bed one morning, did her makeup, put on her jewelry and a curve-hugging, backless dress, and drove around Prague like a tourist. This was all a reckless act, of course; she didn't bother to be discreet. But in a world where Sherlock Holmes had gotten himself killed, she didn't feel so afraid of death anymore.

Then, he had come back. On her television, at three o'clock in the morning, the only source of light in the night-engulfed room. She had said only one word: "Bastard." She was immensely tired, too, and had fallen asleep within minutes of finding out.

It was only in the morning, after the first drops from the shower head had stirred her senses and sent blood rushing to her cheeks, did she fully wrap her head around what she had seen.

Every physical act she had carried out that day had been mindless and automatic, which is how she ended up putting her sleeping robe back on instead of the clothes she had laid out to wear for the day and spilled coffee on her assistant during breakfast.

This disorientation continued for the entire week, and one day, while they were sitting at a café, Emilia snapped.

"What's gotten into you? You were functioning fine a few days ago. Even during your little depression episode, you were fine."

Irene glanced up at her as if she had just noticed she was there. She swallowed and answered, "Nothing."

Emilia glared at her suspiciously. "You're not getting the cigarettes back."

"Fine."

An awkward silence passed between them. Irene traced the rim of her tea mug and said,"I'm going back to London."

Her assistant's eyes widened. "_What?_"

"You heard me."

"Are you sure-"

Irene stood abruptly, grabbed her bag, and gave Emilia a firm look. "I'm sure."

And now she was there, with London's air and the carbon dioxide of sleuths in her lungs.

After a few more minutes of sitting and thinking, Irene got up and took another tour of the flat. She took her time going through the books this time, pulling one out of its place every once in a while and flipping through the pages.

She toyed with all the items save for the possibly corrosive ones lying on the dinner-table-turned-lab-table. Then, she looked through all the cabinets and drawers.

She realized she had forgotten about Sherlock's room when she spotted it down the hallway, its door temptingly shut closed.

There were no shuddering breaths like there had been when she was heading down the stairs. Instead, her heart leaped into her throat. She took no pause before turning the knob and pushing open the door.

The bed covers were new, it seemed. She didn't remember him ever owning the ornate silk-rimmed duvet. Then again, he could've been keeping that in the closet before. So, really, nothing was new. The periodic table hung on the wall by the door, just like last time. Irene smiled, imagining how many times Sherlock must've stood in front of one, memorizing its trends and patterns with his eyes and tracing fingers.

By the window, the theme carried over, with a picture of Dmitri Mendeleev. Above it was a rougher, sketchier version of the periodic table, most likely one of the earlier models. Irene remembered asking him about it and why he had it. He had gone on and on about the importance and necessity of chemistry to his work. She had stared at him, or maybe ogled, with rapt attention.

Irene turned to look above the bed, where Sherlock's framed judo certificate hung. Neat, Japanese script spelled out his name. _That_ brought up impressive memories. Sherlock's swift and graceful movements when he disarmed the American men on the day of their first meeting was proof enough that he was a trained fighter. She had asked him about that too. His mouth had not been shy about revealing the extent of his fighting capabilities, but his eyes had been. Though his tone was neutral and matter-of-fact, she picked up on the slight undertones of a desire to impress. Perhaps he avoided her gaze because he was afraid of seeing indifference.

An endless list of other items were all around the room, even though it didn't seem as jumbled as the living room and kitchen. A daguerreotype of Edgar Allen Poe, some detective books by the aforementioned author, a picture of a young Sherlock with a young (and morbidly obese) Mycroft, a mirror, a lamp, some case files, stacks upon stacks of papers (some with messy, rushed handwriting, some that looked like official documents), writing utensils, eating utensils- in short, as eclectic as the rest of the flat. Every item imaginable was buried somewhere in his room or somewhere in the flat. Irene was sure that, if she looked hard enough, she would stumble upon the hair ties and bobby pins she had lost as a little girl, too.

She had only just noticed something that had been lying there in plain sight: a phone on his desk. It looked strangely familiar. It looked a lot like…

No. It was.

The phone. Her phone. The one she had allowed her life to depend on until Sherlock destroyed its value with a clever follow up of the clues about her heart. It was in his flat.

It was in his _room_.

In plain sight, in his room, on his desk. It seemed wholly unchanged even after these two years. It seemed wholly unchanged even after these three years. It was sitting in a skewed position, as blatant as an open file placed on top of its cabinet.

Irene picked it up and clicked a button. The screen didn't light up.

Maybe he wasn't using it. Maybe he was just looking.

What deductions could she make about that?

Before she had any time to deduce anything, she heard the unmistakable screech of the front door opening. On instinct, she shoved the phone inside her jacket pocket. Forgetting for a moment what she had originally planned to do upon their arrival, she froze and stared at the door with bated breath.

She heard Sherlock and John's voices downstairs, and once reassured that they weren't getting louder, she exhaled and went to stand by the door to listen.

She couldn't make out whole sentences, especially not from John. His voice was a soft, low drone, whereas Sherlock's was fluctuating and rapid, as expected. She could tell he was talking excitedly and could practically see him pacing back and forth, sending the flaps of his coat flailing behind him if he had not yet taken it off.

"-whole _case_, John-"

"I thought-"

"Yes, you would _think_…the whole _world_."

Irene had gathered herself quickly, having expected the silence thick with realization to settle over the place like it did now. She had originally planned to surprise them in the living room, but she had no problem adjusting to the situation. Either way, his bedroom seemed more fitting than anything else.

She propped herself down on his bed, gripped the edge with both hands and put on the most casual expression she could muster, despite the steep elevation of her heart rate.

Any second now, he would come through the door. Irene wasn't sure she could believe it. It wasn't the same, seeing him on the television as opposed to seeing him in the flesh.

A creak from just beyond the door was a giveaway that he was coming closer.

_How different would he be?_

He knew it was her, no doubt. Otherwise, he would've made sure she wouldn't be hearing their approaching steps.

He would try to act nonchalant, she knew. Nothing more could be expected from the great, reticent Sherlock Holmes.

She stopped breathing when she heard a soft thud against the door.

When it opened, she took a deep breath and let the corners of her ruby lips turn upward.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

He let the door make its widest arc and slowly stepped inside. "Ms. Adler."

Behind him, John sighed heavily and put a hand against his forehead. "Oh, God."

* * *

"What the _hell_ is going on?" John asked for the umpteenth time during his acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes.

"Irene Adler's not dead," Sherlock answered plainly.

"Yes, I can see that." John curled his fingers. The frustration was obvious in his tense shoulders. "_How?_"

"You didn't tell him?" Irene asked. She had taken a seat on the chair again.

Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, clad in his typical formal suit and trousers. His hands were folded behind his back. "I saw no need to. It would've only stirred trouble."

"Hold on- you _knew_?"

"Knew? Knew what? That Irene Adler wasn't decapitated in Karachi and is in fact very much alive, yes. That telling you about it would cause trouble? Also yes. You would've wanted to talk to Mycroft, and that would've led nowhere pleasant."

"You-" John couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence and dropped the accusing finger he was pointing at Sherlock so that he could place it on his hip to match the position of his other hand. He walked away from the sitting area to recollect himself.

"Oh, come now, John. The information wasn't crucial to your survival. The topic was irrelevant."

John turned back to face Sherlock. He looked more incredulous than angry. "But it did come up. You had me tell you she was in America in a witness protection program when she was, in fact, dead. I had to go through the trouble of being careful about that topic. Plus, you forced me to give you government property!"

"It's over now. She's alive. I saved her when she was seconds away from being beheaded. Gave her all the documents she needed to travel around the world and escape the bloodlust of her enemies, just until everything settled down." Sherlock turned to face her. "I would say your return is a bit early, but it's not a risk you can't handle. There. All questions cleared up."

"I thought it would be fitting to schedule my trip to London around the same time as your theatrical return."

John moaned. "Yes, everyone just _rise_ from the grave at your convenience. Don't mind the man who had decided to _move on_ with his life, and who doesn't care for bloody ghosts of the pasts giving him a heart attack. I can still throw a marvelous punch, Sherlock."

"What's he on about?" Irene asked.

"Oh, nothing. John just completely overreacted at my return."

Irene felt waves of scalding fury radiating from John and felt sympathy towards the man. Nevertheless, she had to suppress a smile at Sherlock's incredible ignorance and insensitivity and this married-couple fighting. She missed it. She never got to see much of it in the first place, but she missed it. Perhaps she missed human interaction like this in general, this pointless bickering back and forth. The total insignificance of arguments and anger and worries. It had been so long since she could argue or get upset without a soberly dark foundation.

"Oh, God. Did you jump out of nowhere and scare him to death?"

"No, no. Fortunately Sherlock didn't jump," John said with a sarcastic smile. "But he did scare me, and not only me, but my wife. Almost ruined our whole bloody relationship."

"It's not my fault you planned to propose to her that evening. But, as I recall it, her response was fine. She took it like a champ. Better than you did, in fact. Your relationship has had its ups and downs, some of them not at all to do with me, but I think, generally speaking, my return has only increased its endurance for life's challenges."

"I'm not talking about my relationship with _her_, Sherlock, I'm talking about my relationship with _you_. But that's not the point. Now, once again, my question is, what is a perfectly alive, un-beheaded Irene Adler doing in our flat?"

"No need to talk about me in third person; I'm right here. Though I suppose I wouldn't have heard much of what you're saying if Sherlock didn't _nearly_ chop off one of my ears in Karachi."

"You didn't listen to me when I told you to move behind the car. If you had, you wouldn't have run that risk."

"Well if you haven't learned, I'm not that much of a fan of rules. Plus, had I done as you asked, you might've ended up headless yourself."

"I had it all under control."

"I could practically hear that machete screaming 'Off with your head!' But I didn't like the thought of blood being spilled on that divine neck."

"Be grateful my divine neck was there to resc-"

"All right, that's _enough_." John said, raising his voice.

Sherlock and Irene glanced up at him in surprise.

"I'm going out until you two stop flirting like schoolchildren and grow up." He grabbed his coat and put it on. "So, maybe, I'll never come back."

Sherlock frowned. "We're not flirting, we're having an argument." He didn't help himself by ignoring half of what John had said.

John's voice echoed back as he left through the front door. "No bloody difference!"

When the door shut closed, Sherlock and Irene remained silent for a moment.

"He's probably going to see Mary. He's being trying to make up an excuse to slip off and see her. Good thing you popped in." Sherlock came forward to the porcelain set of tea cups and saucers sitting on the living room table and poured them both a steaming cup of Earle Grey tea.

"Why would he sneak away?"

"They're trying to plan something special for my birthday. I'm surprised John still thinks I haven't noticed."

"Of course he hasn't- not when you're playing along. Which is rather sweet."

"Yes, well, I have to keep making it up to him somehow don't I?"

Irene throat felt dry. "For your disappearance?"

Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet hers above the rim of the cup. "In some ways, yes," came the muffled reply before he closed his eyes and took a sip.

They grew silent once more. Irene filled up the time by occupying her hands with sprinkling sugar into her tea cup.

She was relieved to see how normal he looked. For him, at least. His face was a healthy pale. He was incredibly handsome, as always. Curls dark and thick, body lean and agile, movements fluid and graceful, eyes observant and brilliant- reflecting all the room's light while still being the main source of it. They were grey, like the strict science of his deductions, and green, like life and eagerness. Irene wanted to look at them all day. She almost did, except doing so would make it too personal, and she couldn't pull off trying to look like she wanted to make him feel uncomfortable liked before.

She almost jumped out of her chair when they were arguing just before John left, though arguing was the completely wrong word to use. She knew he also felt the _need_ to point out each other's mistakes, to tease, to cause the most wonderful kind of annoyance. She'd dreamed of it, dreamed of it so often because she had had so little of it and thought about how it made her heart flutter. She went to sleep smiling about it after the first time they met, and she hadn't even realized she was smiling until her cheeks began to hurt. It was like a silly schoolgirl crush, except she didn't bury her head into the bed sheets. She forced herself to stop, because she had barely known the man and was already losing the game she started.

Quick, determined, confident, and, as everyone had said, brilliant. But he was also on the better side- the moral side. Helping people.

She hadn't helped anyone in a long time.

That was made her falter. She had never felt she truly belonged in the circle of people she involved herself with. Cheaters, liars, manipulators. She was just as good at her job as they were.

Then why was she there?

She had to remember then, during that long night of contemplation, where she came from.

She looked at Sherlock and saw that his gaze had wandered down and his expression was blank, as if he'd just entered a realm in his mind that was far-removed from reality. As a result of his daze, his grip on the tea cup began to loosen.

"Care-"

Before she could finish her sentence, the tea cup slipped out of his fingers. It fell onto the carpet and rolled away, leaving a glistening brown scar on the carpet that quickly seeped into the fibers and turned dark. Sherlock jumped from his seat, hands frantically wiping his trousers where the tea left its mark and burn.

"Shit, how did I-"

Irene eyes widened slightly at his uncharacteristic use of vulgar language. Then, realizing her late reaction, she stood quickly. "Do you want me to-"

"No, no, it's fine. I'll clean it up." He didn't meet her gaze. "I'll, um, change first."

She gave a weak nod, and then, realizing he probably didn't see it, said, "All right."

He returned a hasty nod and then rushed out of the room.

Irene fell back into her chair, feeling the tension break as soon as he left.

It wasn't at all the tension they normally had- the one that she preferred and found easier to deal with.

The mention of his disappearance was what had done it. She couldn't just avoid it, though, could she? It had been his life for two years. It had been her life for two years. Like with two soldiers who had formed a friendship during a war, what else was there to talk about but what they shared in common? What they volunteered themselves to be scarred for?

The bombing, the screaming, the tears. It was inevitable for them to talk about. This is what it's been leading up to.

She saw it in his face, the panic over what to do _now_. They started off with the familiar banter, because it was the only way they knew how to start, but now that they had moved past it, now that they had to _continue_ somewhere else...

She knew this was coming. They had to come face to face with being people. The purpose of coming without warning was because she thought he didn't need the advantage of knowing. She needed to know, because she had secretly wasted more time on smoking fags when she came to London, thinking about how everything's been leading up to this.

The biggest issue was appraising how real Karachi had been.

He saved her, yes. But then they had that one fin moment of peace before being sucked into a merciless storm without each other's help.

He had saved her, and then, they talked. Sat in a roofless car he had stolen, with the starry night spread out above for them to look at.

She asked him questions about some cases she wasn't sure about, and he forced her think it through, to come to her own conclusions after a bit of ostentatious guidance. She asked about John, and how they met, and he told her that too, making her smile at the loving way he said 'idiot' and 'much smaller brain' and the proud way with which he said 'army doctor' and 'pretty clever sometimes.'

It had gotten quiet at one point, and it was placid and nice. She could hear him thinking hard all the way through, though, not letting his guard down. It was only when he asked her about how she got herself mixed up with Moriarty that she understood why.

The mood had turned serious then, but she understood he needed the information. So, as calmly and distantly as possible, she began to explain.

To her surprise though, he had interrupted, as if he changed his mind, and asked about why she'd done it.

There was nothing on his website about motive, about asking questions that hinted at wanting to extract the emotions in the mix. He wasn't interested in that, right?

The way he asked her, so quietly and softly, with a twitch of his hand in her direction...She felt her eyes begin to water, because he had brushed over a sensitive nerve. She asked herself the same question so many times, and then shoved it out of the way, blaming the smudged mascara and wobbly knees and masochist turning of the tap to ice cold during the shower on being human, on needing an occasional release of emotion. She didn't cry often, after all. Only recently, for some reason, after each day of work had been completed.

She paused before replying, which gave him the wrong idea. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. It was a personal question. It doesn't need to be answered. I can go off the information you were giving me previously."

"No. I'd like to tell you. I haven't told anyone and it doesn't do me good to keep things bottled up." She made it sound as if she always thought this, when it fact, she only realized it just then.

She looked at him, admired the curve of his neck and the way he narrowed his eyes, looking concerned (the first time she'd seen that) and concentrated at the same time. "Go ahead, then."

"Desperation," she told him with a sigh. "And fear."

She did it because she had to do what was necessary, and for a young woman with big, big problems, that could mean a risky position she wasn't sure she wanted to be in.

Her father, George, had been part of a crime web. A man always clad in a suit in tie, 'with a briefcase in his hand and a gun in his waistband', as her mother used to say.

He was rarely at home, in their large, three story flat. That meant she spent most of her time with her sister and mother.

Her sister's name was Amy. In an early memory of her, her sweet caramel hair had bangs. Their mother continuously trimmed them in a straight line for years, and the strands would always separate, so it was never hard to see they were done by an amateur hand. They were dirty with white spots and she was laughing, her smile glistening from the touch of the sun ray's coming from the kitchen window. She ran around the island in the middle of the room and trailed her hand along the marble countertops until it reached the smooth wooden cutting board dusted with flour. She grabbed a handful and ducked down, just as Irene threw the remains of her handful in her direction and missed.

Then there was her mother. Anna.

She gave them both her smile but Irene her eyes and hair and Amy her small, delicate nose. She had gentle hands, though Irene thought they thinned year by year. Perhaps that's why their father stopped touching them.

She worked in an office for some transport company, so she was always gone for a good part of the day, though she always came before Father.

She grew up with her sister and mother. That's what it felt like. Dad always came home late. Sometimes, he came back a day late. Sometimes a week.

It was only when Irene was eleven did she begin to understand. Especially the day when Daddy came home with his shirt stained crimson.

Irene had just been coming down the stairs in front of the front door when Father threw it open and dragged himself in. He didn't even see her.

"Anna!" he growled. He fell to his knees, his suitcase falling beside him with a loud thump. One hand flew to the area beside his waist, alarmingly red against his crisp white dress shirt.

Irene screamed. She dropped to sit on the steps of the stairs and tightly clung to the rails. "Daddy."

Their mother rushed in, hair in a messy bun and an apron tight around her small waist. She spotted her husband immediately. For a brief second, she looked at Irene crumbled on the steps of the stairs. Irene say her eyes were wide, heard her labored breaths. But she didn't see panic, and she stopped sniffling, something in the back of her head reminding her of what she had to do. What anyone should do.

Anna dropped to her knees and lay her husband on his back. "Oh, God. George, what have you done? Irene! Irene, call the police! Call the police _now!_"

Irene had already stood and ran down the steps. She was keeping her distance from the critical area and had been waiting for the instructions to leave the edges of her mother's lips. She had been hugging herself with one arm. Her knees were wobbly and the area above her upper lip was glistening, the result of a runny nose. Only seconds had passed and she could already feel the wound tightening, the pain intensifying. She was about to make the decision to act herself when her mother spoke. This left no room for a late reaction, and she fell into step towards the kitchen, where the phone was.

_Father needs help. Father could die. _

Before she could bolt pass the doorframe of the hall, her father's loud, urgent, "No!" stopped her in her tracks. "Don't call the police!"

"You need help. You'll die. Irene, do as I've told you." Her mother's tone was calm and assertive though she said the words with weak breaths.

Irene looked to her father with hesitation. She took a clumsy step back, instinct telling her to listen to the person she trusted most.

With an awesome briskness, George suddenly grabbed Anna by her blouse and said, through gritted teeth, "You. Won't. Call. Them." Not anticipating the pain that would come with such an aggressive movement, he gasped and wholly collapsed to the floor.

"Upstairs. Upstairs...a number...in the first drawer of my desk...a white paper..."

Anna stood, determined to follow his directions, when Irene sprinted up the stairs ahead of her, taking the steps two at a time.

"What-"

"Oof."

Irene ran smack into a frowning Amy, who had just emerged from her room. Both of them fell to the floor, and Irene scrambled up and wasted no time apologizing, even as Amy shouted after her about how that hurt. Instead she cried, "Dad's been hurt!" before disappearing into his office.

Her hands were shaking and the tears were still streamed down her cheeks, but she felt as if she had a target to work towards, or rather, a fear to act on.

_Father's hurt. _

_Death. Death. Death._

She threw open the top left drawer of his desk and threw out the contents she rendered unnecessary. A black folder. A planner. She was careful when she flitted through the envelopes. She could very well lose the white paper Father mentioned if she wasn't.

Her heart sunk at the sight of the wooden bottom of the drawer, dusty in places she hadn't touched her fingers against. With one last attempt, she stuck her hand in the drawer and felt around inside in the deeper parts she couldn't see.

She froze when her fingers brushes against what undeniably felt like a thin strip of paper. She could see its smooth white surface inscribed with numbers before she took it out. A small smile formed on her lips. She ran downstairs.

Her mother was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, one hand wrapped around Amy, who had her face buried in Anna's shirt, and one hand holding the phone ready. There were red stains on her apron and red fingerprints on the side of her face.

Irene looked at her father and made a sharp intake of breath. He was still on the floor, though adjusted to a less awkward position. He was holding a cloth in his hand and pressing it against his wound. Most of the blood had soaked through. Irene looked away and blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the stinging in her eyes. He was lying so still, face distorted with deep frown lines, skin pale with a blue tint.

She couldn't think about that. She couldn't.

Instead, she shouted the numbers on the paper from the top of the stairs. Her mother dialed them precisely and steadily.

After the duty was done, Irene stood at the top of the stairs and watched as her mother gently pulled Amy away and walked into the kitchen, talking in a hushed but urgent tone. She stared nowhere in particular when she could no longer follow her mother's movements. It soon became clear that she was incapacitated. She couldn't bring herself to move. When Amy ran up to her and breathed out words in between sobs and tugged at her arm, Irene felt as if a rush of water was tuning out her sister's words. She jerked her arm away when Amy's pull became too pleading and almost caught her off balance. And then she was a tree again, with feet buried deep in the floorboards, one thin, frail branch crumpling the paper in a fist.

She was very conscious of her current state. Something lapped against the shores of her mind, telling her to snap out of it. But the plea was too gentle, and she felt inclined to ignore it.

She focused, instead, on the blurry image of her dying father at the corner of her eye. She didn't look at him directly because making the effort seemed the least tempting thing to do. She heard his deep, heavy breathing, and that made her acutely aware of her own. So she breathed, then breathed harder so that she could hear it better. Realizing that she normally couldn't hear people breathing made her realize that his breathing wasn't normal.

_Dying. He was dying._

It was years later than Irene realized it was never the thought of her father dying that made her panic. It was the thought of death at her doorstep. The chaos of that day. No one her age went through this. This was a Serious Issue.

She had never seen so much blood before. She had seen her father hiss and wince when he stubbed his toe on the edge of a door or table. That made her feel uneasy enough. This was a whole new level of injury.

She was crying again. She didn't make a sound, but her forehead creased. The tears were hot.

When her mother emerged from the kitchen, Irene wiped her eyes and sighed shakily. She realized that Amy had come downstairs and was now sitting by her father, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth. She wasn't sniveling anymore, but from in between the strands of her hair, Irene could see her red-rimmed eyes watching her father fixedly.

"He's on his way," Anna said, dropping down to her knees by Amy to wrap an arm around her while she addressed George.

He muttered a reply that Irene couldn't make out. There was a calming quiet that settled over the room that made the lights seem less dim and the shadows less big and the maelstrom in Irene's chest less severe, and mixed with her curiosity over what was being discussed, it made her come downstairs.

Her mother looked up when she heard her footsteps and outstretched her free arm to Irene. Irene dropped to her knees and fell into her mother's embrace though she did not return it. She stared at the red body of her father. She wasn't so shocked anymore. In fact, she was entranced, finding that she couldn't look away from the red. His eyes, usually a piercing grey, were now fading into the grey of his skin. There was nothing left to look at.

"Mummy's called a doctor," her mother whispered as she kissed Irene's head. "He said Daddy's going to be okay. It's a shallow wound."

"Why did he get shot, Mum?" Amy said, voice unusually high-pitched.

"Apply pressure," Anna told her husband, and unwound herself from her daughters to do just that. Then, more quietly, to Amy, she said, "I don't know." She gave them both a reassuring smile. "It'll be okay. Just go and look for more clean cloths, darlings. Clean. This one is all soaked through."

"Okay."

"Okay."

Irene and Amy rose quickly and bumped into each other as they both turned to go to the kitchen. They gave each other a look, and an understanding passed between them, an understanding that they should go look together, because this was a Serious Situation and it only seemed natural for them to stick together instead of separating. So, silently, they continued in their intended direction.

The doctor arrived before they brought the cloths. He arrived with four other men, all wearing scrubs, though there was something about their stocky builds and dark, furrowed brows that made them look different from the paramedics Irene imagined in her head. In fact, they looked a lot like Father when he came home from work, with a countenance that's been robbed of the sunlight that softened his face and made his eyes shine in the morning before he stepped through the door. Dark shadows were bedded in the creases of their foreheads and the hollow areas of their cheeks. Maybe the darkness that usually settled over London before he came home was stronger than the light, like carbon monoxide over oxygen. It looked like it suffocated him, too.

That's how these men looked, though they seemed to accept the hard shadowy lines on their faces.

The doctor was older, evident from the gray in his facial hair, which happened to also soften his features. He spoke in a gruff tone that suggested he was as serious as the rest of them looked.

They took his father into the living room and left behind a pool of blood.

Irene didn't remember much else after that. Nothing except that her father survived.

The next day, her mother sat her down in the kitchen.

"Irene. There's something you have to know about your father's work."

"Dad works against dangerous people?"

Her mother smiled weakly. "Something like that. Daddy...has a dangerous job. What you saw yesterday, it was because of the risks he was taking. Sometimes, people come after him. Dangerous people, yes. He-"

Nothing in her explanation told her it was an illegal job he was doing, or what exactly it was that he was doing. She only made it clear that it had to be kept a secret. No one in school was to find out about any of this. She would talk to Amy too, but Irene had to keep an eye on her younger sibling.

Over the years, Irene began to come to her own conclusions. Her own understandings. She mused for long minutes before she went to sleep about what his 'job' was. She had dreams about the night he came home with a hole in his body.

Whenever she brought up that day, her mother would work around a proper answer. She was too busy. Sometimes she was honest and told Irene that she'd prefer to save the subject for another day.

"If you're the woman I think you are, I hope it didn't take you too long to figure it out," Sherlock interrupted.

"It didn't. Well, it was years later. When I was thirteen."

Sherlock let out a huff.

Irene narrowed her eyes. "Sorry, why is it that you're here again? You traveled miles to get here, stole a car, put in the effort to find a good disguise and then risked your life to save me when it would really serve you no benefit. Not to mention, you went behind your brother's back and lied to your best friend. What word was it that you used to describe such an ambitious effort to rip open your chest and show your heart? Senti-"

"It wasn't. _Sentiment_," Sherlock hissed.

"Past tense. You're using past tense. 'Was not' implies that it is now."

"I-" Sherlock sat up straight and glowered at Irene. He looked ready to debate about the semantics of his words till the end of eternity, but then, his expression changed. He sighed and relaxed in his seat again, as if tiredly resigning. "Don't you have a life story to finish?" The bite in his voice was benign, unlike a second ago. The attempt to sound flat was failing too.

"That was the exposition. The rest I don't want to go into detail over, though I will tell you what happened."

"That's fine."

Irene paused for a moment. Again, he got mistook the silence for hesitation.

"If you don't want to do this, I understand. I could go my whole life without knowing, seeing as the information is unlikely to shed any light on any of the cases I may be involved with, assuming they won't be involving you. The probability is against such a thing happening. In fact, I don't know why I asked you the question at all, other than out of curiosity..."

He trailed off at the last part, and she saw him swallow from the corner of her eye, saw his gaze shift back and forth, as if he wasn't sure what patch of stars to focus on despite their uniformity to the untrained eye. To Irene's understanding, he wasn't an astronomy expert.

"Sherlock- I'd like to tell you. It's not really a secret. And maybe you'd trust me more when you hear the end of it."

"What makes you think I don't trust you?"

Irene quickly turned her head to look at him because there was no tell-tale lilt of sarcasm to make the question sound anything but sincere. "I wouldn't trust me."

"Hmm. Well. Maybe I'm becoming more like John. He's a naïve puppy."

Irene closed her eyes, hearing Sherlock's words but focusing so carefully on what she was about to say next that she they didn't register. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. "My father was murdered when I was twenty. And so was my mother."

Her heart picked up its already-quickened pace when the words left her mouth, the building anxiety finally reaching its peak and making her body feel weak. Having built up the courage to say the hardest part, she rushed on, not looking at Sherlock because she didn't think she wanted to know his reaction. Not yet.

"Me and Amy, we were left alone. But the people my father worked for, they knew we knew too much. When we were kept under my father's wing, we didn't pose a threat. Now that he was dead, they knew something had to be done with us. They gave us an ultimatum. End up like your parents, or work for us. They weren't threatening us with murder, but they knew it was only a matter of time before someone would realize it would be best to kill us too. Seeing as they weren't a charity organization, they weren't just going to let us live an ordinary life with their protection. Instead, they offered us positions within their organization."

She paused to take another deep breath. She felt her hands shaking. The panic had evened out through her body now, simply leaving her feeling shaken and in need of a cold splash of water against her face.

"You accepted," Sherlock suddenly finished for her, after the pause had stretched on long enough to sound conclusive.

Somehow, this made it easier for Irene to find her voice again. "We had no other choice."

"There's always a choice."

"If you knew everything that happened, Sherlock, you'd know that there wasn't."

"That's not what I meant." He met her eyes just as she looked up at him, his own a soft green. "You had a choice, but your sister didn't. Her promised position was for some indefinite, unclear time in the future. Until then, it was only you who could accept."

"Yes. You're right."

"She was too young."

"Sixteen. Not sharp enough or experienced enough to get hired. It would be a while before she could involve herself. So I did it. For both of us."

Sherlock frowned for a moment, but it took him less than a few seconds to understand so that the confusion cleared away from his face. He sat forward in his seat again and hung his head. He shut his eyes and turned his face away. "Experienced," he repeated.

"Yes."

"You became a sex worker as a teenager?"

"Not a sex worker."

Sherlock let out an indicative sigh at the words, his shoulders slackening and his drumming fingers stilling at his knee.

Irene continued. "I became a first-class juvenile delinquent. I learned things that would help me cause political scandals along the way, though."

"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly.

Irene looked at him, really looked, tried to make out his eyes in the dark, though it was difficult with his face half turned the other away. She thought she understood this man because he was a reflection of her. Because she admired him, was overwhelmed by him, spent many nights thinking about him. She made sure to analyze every detail about him, though perhaps not in the way he analyzed other people, and had come to the conclusion that he wasn't the emotionless machine people could easily mistake him to be. He was, in fact, far from it. He could act compassionate, in his own funny way. Coming to Karachi was one way. But she had never expected to hear the gentility he used in his voice just then. As if the revelation had hit some nerve.

Irene shifted in her seat and leaned towards him. "I...can't really explain. Maybe I needed a thrill, just like you need your cases."

Sherlock finally turned his head. His expression was surprisingly soft, though his eyebrows rose in a dubious way. "And had it nothing to do with the despicable circumstances in your household?"

"What makes you think they were despicable?"

Hesitantly, Sherlock answered, "I merely...observed. Then did what I normally do."

"Well, you're right. They were despicable."

He looked at her with forehead creased. Irene was still so perplexed by his tone that she began to wonder if he was willingly letting himself show concern.

Then, something in her head clicked. Perhaps he looked so sympathetic because his past haunted him, too. Maybe it was hard to keep his usual distant cool because he could, in some way, relate.

When he didn't reply, Irene said, "Though do tell me how you knew. I want to see if you have the story right."

"Of course I-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "That is, I am, for the most part, certain that I've correctly filled in the gaps in your story going by what you've already told me."

Irene smiled, his attempt to steer away from pretension catching her off guard. "By all means, Mr. Holmes, do show off. If you do a good job, I'll be flattered that you were such an attentive listener. Maybe I'll reward you."

"Mmm. Incentive. Should I really be interested? You don't look like you have much to offer me. Clad in tattered clothing, no money on your person…"

"Go on, tell me."

"I thought you didn't want to bring up the details."

"I don't. But it'll be different hearing it from you."

_You won't be giving a personal account riddled with emotion. You won't sound pathetic. _

In fact, he wouldn't once falter, his baritone voice communicating his thoughts clearly and precisely. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath through his nose before he began. Irene could almost feel the static from the electric green spark in his eyes as he prepared to make another deduction. When he began, the wind found its place in the night and whistled through the holes in Irene's clothes, making her shiver despite its slight warmth and drawing her closer to the only other source of heat for miles in the middle of the sandy, flat terrain. The moon and stars reflected in her eyes as she listened to Sherlock Holmes' unwavering, smooth voice. For a moment, she didn't think the world existed- only the two of them did, along with the immediate surroundings, which were not, of course, just a piece of land that was minuscule in comparison with what stretched beyond. The silly thought was fleeting- she suspected it came as a result of the hypnotizing blue glow of the moon and the romantic unfamiliarity of a foreign country and the dangerous attempt at escape- but it did leave her with a strange, melancholy calm in her chest. Mixed with the weight of talking about her past life, she was a mess of emotion and feeling, so she found comfort in watching Sherlock's full lips form words in more attractive ways than she could have ever done.

* * *

There was one thing missing that was usually there when Sherlock was ready to make use of his mental skills: the eagerness to prove himself. When he spoke, he didn't tilt his head or twitch his eyebrows or smirk in a smug way. In fact, he seemed content with keeping his countenance serious and concentrated. His voice was level and neutral, though he paused throughout the explanation on a few occasions to swallow thickly. It was the only giveaway of a possible strain in his mind- a hesitancy to invade the Woman's privacy and speak about matters that could not be categorized as useful for cases. In fact, they could only be categorized as personal matters, with highly sensitive bombs of emotion at every turn. Perhaps they could be called matters of the heart.

The danger lay in this: they would no longer just be matters of Irene's heart, but of Sherlock's as well, for choosing to explore them and scrutinize them. They had no place in the clinical and organized part of his Mind Palace, the part of it located in his brain. They would instead go to the faraway wing that required passage through a dim, long hallway to be reached. It was deterring to go that way, since it would take both time and patience to cross the hallway, and those were things he couldn't afford to waste when he was usually seeking salient and ready information. That's why he never stored it in the real Mind Palace in the first place.

Though what he was about to discuss could be classified as factual, in no way could he count it as information. It was an element of distraction, like the majority of the things he dumped into his heart. He was there now, though, as he was wont to be whenever Irene Adler could not be pushed to the periphery of his thoughts, which certainly couldn't be done when she was in the periphery of his vision. He was still capable of using his methods of deduction despite deviating from the technical, impartial part of his mind because the context was finally congruous with the sentiment. Most situations called for the Mind Palace he unashamedly referred to. But the barely-used wing, whose walls pulsed with the blood of his heart and contained things he'd prefer to keep deeply buried, demanded his use now. Since he considered Irene as a resident within that part of him, it wasn't as hard to work in that environment like it was when he ended up there by accident during moments that required for him to remove himself from desires and feelings completely. To his defense, the Woman was unfairly clever anyway; she could find her way past whatever locks and bolts he had put in place to keep the contents of the Heart Palace (or himself) away. Now, it was futile to try to maintain control when she was there, physically, as real as thought itself. His mistake when first meeting her had been to resist. Now he knew better. Now he knew that to give in would make it seem less like temptation or exacerbation and more like control. Because there was a sense of stability in knowing you weren't afraid of the fluctuations.

He took a moment to take her in. Her blue, placid eyes, made brighter by her, dark, scrunched-up eyebrows, were looking at him expectantly. Assured that she didn't seem repentant about granting him permission to pick up where she left off on her personal matters, he slowly began.

"You figured out your father was part of the crime web when you were thirteen, which left seven years for you to discuss it, mull over it, and try to deal with it. It's not the easiest fact to wrap one's mind around, evidently. Surely you didn't take the shock lightly. Most people wouldn't."

"No," Irene agreed.

"You described your relationship with your father as distant, and your relationship with your mother as the opposite. That would've certainly created a fissure within the family. In addition, you had a younger sister who fell under your care whenever your parents were busy, which they were, most of the time. You admitted that your father was rarely home which would've left your mother with the usual parental responsibilities. She also had a full-time job. This guaranteed that you and your sister didn't interact with your parents as much as the next nuclear family in London. So, from a young age you were burdened with the task of being a grown up. How could a family function when its constituent parts are either too young, too preoccupied, or too indifferent to try and keep it together? I've looked into some of the statistics for that particular subject. Dysfunctional families tend to produce quite a lot of criminals. That's certainly helpful in narrowing down the suspect pool in cases."

He was surprised by the absence of the usual rattling, excited edge to his tone. Instead, he spoke grimly, like he should have spoken on the subject of all the deceased he's had to deal with in his lifetime. Again, he thought of how important ambiance was in relation to his actions. This was another effect of the Heart Palace. Oh, he could actually cringe at that title. When did he begin to call it that? Then again, its mawkishness certainly reminded him of his distaste for dealing with emotion. Perhaps it was appropriate after all.

The thing was, he wasn't feeling particularly depressed about the subject, but he wasn't looking at it objectively, either. He knew the fact that it involved the Woman was to blame. Rarely did he choose to use such a guarded, almost...considerate tone when recounting the facts. Maybe there were a few instances, with John. Oh, but sod it. This was absurd. He didn't spare people's feelings.

Yet despite his discomfort with his instinctually thoughtful approach, he couldn't stop.

"Mere neutrality of your attitude towards your father could've allowed for a stable or even happy home unit. But it's unlikely that a person involved in a crime web would have a calm and passive enough personality to keep it neutral. Taking from what I've learned from you thus far, I wouldn't say you're someone who turns a blind eye to matters that could badly affect someone you care about. I don't know the details, but I'm certain that you and your father had a growing antagonist over the years. But nothing could be done about that. Your mother wouldn't have wanted a divorce. You were economically dependent on him. Her job wouldn't cover paying the bills or all the things needed to accommodate two children without causing challenges."

"My mother loved my father," Irene said suddenly. Her eyes had a far-away look and her voice was distractedly airy.

Sherlock considered the proclamation and saw that it slightly shifted some aspects of his theory. Not enough to make him doubt the outcome he'd predicted, but enough to change his understanding of how it happened. Of course it was difficult to discern the personal feelings of- Oh. Sherlock rewound his thoughts and took a hard look at her words and the precise moment she had chosen to say them. After he had deduced that the reason they couldn't leave George Adler was because of economic dependence.

Which meant…

"You put up with him…because of your mother. Someone you loved dearly. Someone's decisions you had to respect, the consequences of which you had to endure."

Irene hummed a yes. "You were right about the economic issues we would face if she left him. My mum didn't make much money. But she also knew too much, of course. You marry someone like that, and you're bound to them for life."

Sherlock turned his head and sighed as if he'd known this would happen and no one had been listening to his warnings. He then closed his eyes and said, languidly, "Humans are so much more prone to err when they begin to love."

"Well, if she didn't, there might not have been me."

"And if there hadn't been you, I wouldn't have risked jeopardizing Mycroft's life."

It was too late to stop the hurling train, even though he became aware of the words he was about to say before he said them. Sherlock had the strange sensation that he had slipped on the stairs and was now desperately clawing at the air in an attempt to break his fall before finally hitting the ground and having the air knocked out of his lungs. He had been staring at her hand as it hugged the arm hugging her body, and now he looked away and out the windscreen, onto the never-ending strip of road. Then, feeling that must've been too telling, looked to her face, sure that that would certainly show her that he had absolutely no desire to cringe and pull his hair out at the thought of his words, his declaration of feelings, therefore showing that they couldn't be taken to mean anything because of his damned philosophical and reckless comment before that.

But looking at her was a mistake, because she had straightened suddenly, indicating that the words had pulled a trigger, and her lips had parted and her sparkling blue eyes were watching him, and, abandoning his previous attempt to look indifferent by facing her fully because of the instinctual flight response his brain had urged he act on, he looked away, only to once again remember that that was a definite sign of cowardice. So he threw another glance in her direction, only to look away again, only to repeat all this for a torturously long three seconds.

With an abrupt puffing of his chest and a deep breath, he said, "Right. On with case. Quick recap: you had problems with your father. Problems of most people your age were considerably smaller compared to what you would have had to endure. Not in terms of getting along, necessarily, because your mother must've restrained you, whether consciously or unconsciously, from being forthright with your opinion of him."

"Sherlock-"

"There were probably fights," Sherlock raised his voice, making all possible efforts not to look in her direction, "and also more incidents like the ones you described. That's enough to make anyone resort to something drastic as a way to dealing with the problem when they couldn't fix it. And what do many teenagers do when they're not happy with their circumstances? They resort to some sort of destructive hobby, like drugs, until it becomes an addiction. You resorted to delinquency. This aspect of troubled youths cannot be generalized, but, statistically, it is likely to happen."

"You said-"

"Fast forward, and the reality is ironic: you work for the same people your father worked for. But your sister- what happened to your sister?"

To Sherlock's relief, Irene's shoulders drooped and she sat back, resigning in her attempt to get him to pause. His quick reversion to the talk about her personal life had worked just as he'd intended. Again, he repeated, "What happened to your sister?"

It was part rhetorical and part actual question. He could've tried answering himself, but there wasn't enough data to give a definite answer. He paused, and, to his relief, she answered.

"You know, Mr. Holmes, I was always a great manipulator, even before I got myself involved in bad business. The friends my father had were only as generous as criminals could be to an orphan girl when they offered me a job. I'm sure you already understand that offering my sister a job was a joke meant to get me to agree. Luckily, I picked up some lessons about liars from my father and used common sense. It was obvious that she wasn't going to be useful to them, and like I said: they weren't a charity. I knew they wouldn't do anything to her except leave her to fend for herself until the same people that killed my parents came to her to get information. Except I was the one that had most of it. About my father. About where to find more information about my father. Though those people worked with him, they knew he was running his own operations. I happened to overhear phone conversations. And I made occasional enlightening trips to his office. Then I cracked the codes to a few of his safes. That's why they wanted me. My experience in delinquency and my more-appropriate age were only added bonuses. I traded that in, bit by bit, to keep my sister alive. They quickly understood that I was actually very resourceful and capable of eluding trouble when it came to breaking the law. When I did break the law, the profit was always impressive. I knew my contract would not stay temporary for long. I guaranteed myself a revered and stable position within the crime web. You know what they told me as a compliment?" Irene's voice shook with a mirthless laugh. "I was even worse than my father."

Sherlock's relief had faded as the gravity of her voice pulled him in. He felt an unpleasant twist in the pit of his stomach at the sound of the bitterness and incredulity in her voice. His lips parted to deny her statement so that he could ease some of the tension in her face, but he paused. He couldn't say anything like that without sounding partisan. He wanted to suggest that she was better than her father because, as much as he would loath to admit it, he had already constructed a twisted, shadowy image of him in his mind based on the opinion she voiced. In contrast, he felt an incredible, suffocating appreciation for her, an appreciation that didn't allow him to see her as villainous, an appreciation that had the danger of allowing him to justify whatever legal boundaries she had crossed, even though he wasn't sure what all of them were. He hesitated, because the only words of comfort he felt he had a right to offer had to be sincere. And making an outright falsification of her statement wouldn't be honest. She would see right through it and know that it was only the typical contradiction one would offer when another person discredited and demoralized themselves. But he couldn't look at her delicate lashes and the warm brown hair framing her perfectly sculpted face and make her a villain. He didn't care about the legal boundaries she had crossed, truth be told. He wasn't innocent of crossing a few, or maybe more than a few, himself. Still, he knew there was a possibility there were moral boundaries she had crossed that might leave him disgusted. But despite this, he embraced his totally biased denial that the Woman had done any wrong that could not be forgiven. He just knew he wouldn't be able to deny the possibility of her infamy in the eyes of law abiding, justice-advocating people. She knew that. She knew he did the right thing and would not value his bias. So, carefully, he reconsidered what he would say.

Finally, he decided on mentioning something that had taken him by surprise from the beginning and would help him communicate what he'd intended to without sounding ingenuous now. "But you weren't. You weren't selfish. You did it to help your sister."

When he met Irene's eyes, he was surprised to see that they were brimmed with tears. In a low whisper, she said, "I did."

He wasn't sure about what happened next, why he had grabbed her face when he saw that the tears were threatening to spill over the rims of her eyes and wiped them when they'd fallen. He wasn't sure why, when she had placed her forehead against his chest, he had wrapped his arms around her, even though an irritating voice in his head that might've been John's approved of it anyway. He wasn't sure why, when she breathed into his shirt about how she had sent her sister away to America, about how she hadn't seen her in years and only had someone check up on her to see if she was all right, he had buried his face in her hair and kissed her head and made jokes about how Mycroft would love to deport him to America and never see him again. He smiled when she let out a teary laugh. He wasn't sure why he had drunkenly continued to mumble jokes into her ear, as if they hadn't just run away from a group of executioners or discussed serious things. As if he was doing anything but reinforcing the slip of the tongue from a few moments ago.

Now, he wasn't sure why he had rushed to negate it in the first place.

He was too exhausted to think about it much further. All he could think about was how the Woman smelled. Red-rose sweet. It seemed impossible, considering she probably hadn't had access to perfume or scented soaps in weeks and that the abundant presence of sand and sweat should've washed the other smells out of his nose. But as the minutes ticked by and their bodies got progressively warmer as the heat circulated through their connected arms and chests, it became the pervading, dominant smell. He forgot about the sand and the perspiration, and since the tired, sensuous, soft woman tangled in his arms was the only thing that felt real, he almost fell asleep.

He certainly would've liked to.

* * *

Sherlock fell against the door the moment it closed and breathed a sigh of relief.

The Woman was here.

He wrung his hands and blinked rapidly.

After three years, she was finally here. So poised and calm, with one slender leg draped over the other casually, as if she lived there. Graceful fingers handling her tea cup, mocking his own clumsiness.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Sherlock remembered why he had come to his room in the first place and went to retrieve a change of clothes. As his hands filed through the neatly stacked pile of trousers in his closet, he stopped, realizing there was really no purpose to it. Any pair would do, yet he was mindlessly going through the stack as if looking a specific pair.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

This was her doing. She had caught him off guard, though he made an effort not to show it. He thought his hands would begin shaking soon enough, and mixed with the urge to jump up and run back to her to see what she was doing, he could've exploded.

He couldn't believe it- couldn't believe she would come uninvited and unannounced. It was expected of her, but for some reason, he thought it an injustice. It was worse than a smack across the face, though he found himself wishing she would slap him like she once did so that he could regain some of his senses.

Didn't she know who he was? Didn't she see how handicapped he was when it came to things like this the moment they met?

Karachi was what had done it. Karachi allowed for a whole range of emotions and actions that wouldn't normally happen. That's what was feeding her hope.

But he couldn't maintain that. He could try, but he would helplessly fail. After they had said goodbye in Karachi, he had compartmentalized all memories of her and the emotions associated with those memories. She still managed to invade his mind. Too often would his thoughts go to her...too often did he try to fill in the gaps of her absence with scenarios about what she could've been doing. And too often had they turned in an unexpected direction.

His musings about her were childish, served no purpose and were uncharacteristically that of a carefree dreamer...

He had to get rid of Irene Adler. Get rid of her and never think of her again. Despite what they had, despite how much he wanted what they had, he knew it would be chaotic of him to keep it.

If he could barely maintain control when he wasn't in a relationship, how would he do it if he was?

Sherlock balled his fists, stood, and began to put on the other set of clothes.

This had to end. As he changed, he repeated the words over in his head. This had to end.

Adamant, he took a deep breath and puffed up his chest as he opened the door and headed back to the living room, where Irene sat waiting.

* * *

Irene wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there, reminiscing about the past. The total silence made it feel like hours, though that couldn't be. The warmth still emanating from the tea cup wrapped in her hands assured her. Only now remembering she had it in the first place, she hurriedly brought it up to her mouth to take a sip. Otherwise, she'd come off as uncouth. That's what her mother would tell her, anyway. "You won't impress a boy with those manners, Irene."

Realizing how silly that sounded, she gave her head a small shake. If only she knew how far beyond the point of decency she'd gone with Sherlock Holmes. Or how much prim table manners were certainly not going to help impress him.

What would impress him, perhaps, was a profound analysis of the implications of certain table manners- how the position of the forefinger on the fork would hint at social status, or how the state of the plate by the end of the meal, being a cultural element, would allow him to determine the person's place of origin.

She certainly chose to love a most odd man.

She heard Sherlock's brisk footsteps and started, almost dropping her own cup of tea and making her heart race as a result. She could hear its thumps in her ears and hoped desperately that Sherlock wouldn't be that observant, wouldn't be able to see the blood rushing through her skin. Surprisingly, when he emerged from the hall, he looked as bewildered as she felt. His movements were too quick and unsteady as he adjusted his change of clothes- as sharp and formal as always, she noted- and sat down in his chair.

He took a deep breath and splayed out his fingers on the arm of the chair. Something calmed in his stance. He finally lifted his head to look at her.

She raised her eyebrows, and, not being able to help herself, said, "Hope that didn't damage your-"

"It didn't," Sherlock interjected firmly.

Irene nodded. She tried desperately hard to stay serious, but she couldn't help the grin that started to creep up her lips. "Well, good. I was starting to think something shriveled up in there and you were too terrified to come out with it missing."

Sherlock looked up at her, one eyebrow raised.

The moment she saw one edge of his lips quirk up, she burst out laughing.

The sight of his confused amusement was itself amusing. She had to turn away for a moment and let the laughter subside, and when she turned around again, with one hand masking her smile, he was adjusting the lapels of his jacket and watching her, still struggling with his twitching lips.

"Really, Irene, you do misbehave."

"Well, you did take a frightfully long time."

Finally, he won the battle with his lips, which smoothed into a straight line. "I was thinking."

"Don't you always?"

Sherlock stood and walked to the window. From the nearby table, he picked up his violin. "I was trying to understand why you had come back."

Irene stood too, and walked to stand behind him. "Don't lie, Mr. Holmes. You know why I came back."

He put down the violin, which he had been idly stroking, and turned to her suddenly, and the distance between them seemed much shorter with him facing her instead of his back. "Because of sentiment? Because you still have feelings for me? Yes, I knew that. It was about what wasn't there in your head when you made the decision to see me again. Because those things have clouded your judgment once again."

"What do you mean?"

"Irene," he began, and folded his hands behind his back, making his posture cold, "I'm not the man you're looking for."

Irene blinked. "What?"

Not once did he look at her during the speech that followed. He paused many times, as if someone else was whispering what words to say into his ear and he had to take a moment to process them. "I've thought long about Karachi. About what you said and what you did. And then about what I said and did. I've reached the conclusion that I am not the man for you."

Irene almost spoke up but thought he sounded grave enough to let him finish.

"In fact, I've reached the conclusion I am not the man for anyone. I've never been involved in a romantic relationship. It's not hard to guess why. I'm insensitive, cold, selfish and lacking in thoughtfulness. I won't be able to cater to your needs. My actions in Karachi may have appeared as heroic and compassionate, but frankly, I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did. To you and…to what you said. That night is still a mystery to me, because I know myself, and I know that I am not someone one would call a loving person. I love certain people. But most of them have made it clear that I'm terrible at ascertaining that fact. I feel like I can succeed in friendships, but to attempt to engage myself in a relationship that goes beyond that would result in utter failure. It would require something that is outside my sphere of understanding. I know my strengths, but I also know my weaknesses. This…whatever this is, is…a weakness. I know that you are a person very susceptible to emotion. But I'm afraid you won't always find the comforting or reassuring response you need from me as anyone would from their partner. Therefore, for your own good, it'd be best if you leave now and forget me. I've done research on how long the psychological recovery is after a separation. Admittedly, we would've had to establish a relationship for there to be any sort of break up-"

"Stop," Irene cut in. "Just stop. Right now."

"I think you really need to-"

"No, I think you really need to listen to me."

When Irene sensed that something had been bothering him, she was apprehensive. She thought he would tell her he was incapable of trusting her, and therefore wary of her arrival. After her entanglement with Moriarty, she wasn't sure whether he would forgive her. Then, she was even paranoid enough to think he would meet her unexpected visit with consternation. But now, Irene was angry. Of all the issues she was prepared to face that day, she didn't think she would have to listen to this.

Her assertive, demanding tone finally drew Sherlock's gaze to her. He swallowed.

"Firstly, you are a stupid, stupid man."

"I-"

"Don't interrupt."

Sherlock obediently shut his mouth but lifted his chin and inhaled through his nose indignantly.

"Secondly, you're right. You're not the man for me."

She almost slapped away the idiotic frown that formed on his face. The bastard wasn't expecting her to agree with him.

"Because the man I picked," she continued, "whether he was aware of why I picked him or not, was not a coward. I could tell that joke at parties. 'How do you make the brilliant, ruthless detective run for his life? Show him a heart. He won't be able to handle it.' Do you really think I didn't know that you can be a cold, inconsiderate bastard?" Her voice was faltering now, so she spoke barely above a whisper. "Or have you forgotten the day you figured out my mobile phone password?"

"My subsequent actions nullified whatever pain I may have caused you that night, clear from how you gave me your full trust in Karachi. Therefore you're still under the illusion that I would be a good match for you," Sherlock said.

"Are you even listening to me?" Irene said shrilly. She shut her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Sherlock's eyes shifted at her response. She could hear his discomfort in the rustle of his clothes.

"I know how you can be. Everyone knows how you can be. But they still put up with you, don't they? Because they love you, Sherlock. Because they see what I see. That underneath all that rubbish you like to use as an armor and define yourself with, there is a good man. Don't flatter yourself with the title of 'sociopath'. If you think, for one second, that I didn't know what I signed up for, that I bared my heart to you in vain, I-" She felt her eyes begin to water and looked towards the ground. After a few moments, despite knowing how much her voice would quiver, she made herself look at him again.

"If you don't trust my judgment, and you can trust everyone else's, then I understand this to be your attempt at an escape. There really isn't that much of difference between friendship and romance as you're making it out to be, Mr. Holmes. This leads me to the conclusion that you've had a change of heart about me and are trying to cover it up. In which case I ask you to kindly step off your high pedestal, stop acting the benevolent king, and tell me, mercilessly, that you don't care for me anymore."

Her own causticity pushed her screeching anger into a tremulous release. She felt hot tears spill over her cheeks but didn't wipe them away, continuing to challenge him with her stare.

When Sherlock looked away, she knew she'd won.

Because she didn't believe that Sherlock Holmes was trying to get rid of her by cheap, shallow means.

Because she knew that he would falter when it came to the truth.

But because a part of her was still angry, she didn't feel satisfied with herself.

So she took out the phone in her pocket and shoved it forward for him to see.

"But I know that that's not true. Or else I'd really like for you to explain this."

He looked at the phone, and quickly looked away again.

After a moment, he bit, "Who gave you permission to snoop around my room?"

"I invited myself in. Figured I'd get a welcome, since I'm a regular."

"It's been three years. Hardly counts as 'regular'."

"I'm sure I'm as regular as it gets."

He looked at her with a sharp turn of his head. Her acerbic words had hardened his features.

"I wouldn't be so sure. You'd be surprised how much things have changed."

"This," Irene waved the phone in front of him, "is all I need to be sure. I know you. Because really, we're reflections of each other."

Sherlock gritted his teeth and snapped, "You don't know me, Irene."

"I know that you were lying through your teeth just a moment ago. Why are you so afraid of confronting how you feel? You can't keep it bottled up forever. Are you afraid of me? How I'd respond? Because that wouldn't make sense after how much I trusted you in Karachi and how much I'm trusting you now, don't you think?"

Sherlock turned away, and her heart sunk down to the pit of her stomach. She hugged herself with both arms and pursed her lips. Quietly, she said, "You don't trust me."

He didn't respond. A thick, hard lump formed in her throat as her fears consumed her and she opened her mouth so that air could filter through it and sooth the pain. A long silence passed until she found the words she was looking for.

"Well, I can understand that. Just because I decided to be a gushing baby doesn't mean you had to reciprocate. I'm stupid too. A stupid woman. Delusional, like you said. Just look at me. I'm a retired dominatrix with a troubled past who fell in love with a madman and hoped that he'd-" She shook her head. "Yes, I understand. You have feelings for me but you don't trust me. You could've said so."

She was relieved, though still hopeless, when he finally turned to face her again. The irritation from a moment ago had disappeared from his face. He was frowning in that gentle way that made her chest warm, except she knew she shouldn't allow herself to feel that way. She had to march into the snowstorm that raged ahead and do as he had asked: disconnect herself from him. Maybe she should ask him to continue talking about the statistics of recovery after a break up, so she at least wouldn't be facing the storm naked.

Of course, the universe would never be so generous, because Sherlock Holmes took a step forward and crossed every boundary of personal space between them by grabbing her wrist and leaning down until she could feel his hot breath pelting against her face and smell his sweet cologne and see every single perfect, curved dark hair on his head. He interlaced his fingers with hers and used his other arm to snake around her waist and pull her closer. She looked up at him, imagining her nose and eyes must've been raw and red from the crying, though she wasn't afraid to betray herself to him, because his embrace was still the most grounding and sure thing in the world.

Softly, he said, "Irene. You are a stupid woman. If you were smart, you'd have taken me up on my offer to walk away when you still had the chance. Now it's too late because I've said too much."

He slid his hand out of hers and interwove it with her loose hair. "I didn't lie to you verbally. When I say I don't think it's wise for you to want to involve yourself with me, I say it not because I don't trust your judgment or you. I do trust you." He kissed her forehead and left his lips grazing her skin as he continued, so that vibrations of his baritone voice tickled her. "But I don't trust myself. You think you've seen the worse of me. You think others have seen it and have accepted it and consider yourself just as capable of handling me. But the catch is, no one's seen the worse of me." He pulled back and gazed into her eyes. "Not like you might if we allow this to happen."

"I'm ready for it. You can't surprise me. I've seen it all."

"How can you be ready for it when I'm not? You don't know the turmoil I feel. The intensity. Sometimes I think…possessive thoughts. I am a coward, Irene. And I am afraid. To hurt you. To use you to satisfy my own desires. Look at what I did to John Watson."

Irene let out a breath of laughter, the knot in her chest instantly unraveling. She lifted a hand and stroked the side of his face. "Sherlock, people do that. They hurt others. It's inevitable. You've hurt John, yes. But why do you think he always forgives you? Even when you're not trying to redeem yourself, like now. You let me cry, and now you're telling me it's because of something so silly?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No, I'm not like other people. I hurt others in extreme ways. And you're different. Because every sense of order and objectivity I've persevered to maintain in my life is dismantled when I'm with you. If that happens, there's no knowing what I would do."

Irene smiled faintly. "So you lose control? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes."

Irene bunched up the front of his dress shirt and pulled him closer. "That's what it's supposed to feel like, Sherlock. Don't you know?"

"What is?"

She waited till it dawned on him. She knew it did when the creases on his forehead smoothed out and he turned his head away. "That's ridiculous."

"It is. But we can't control it. That's what it feels like. Out of your control. You won't be able to turn it into an experiment because it's wild and untamable."

"But it doesn't make sense," Sherlock protested. "If it was…that, then I'm not doing it right. My emotions seem feral, like you described, but they're not right. They can't be. I'm doing this wrong, Irene," he said with finality. "You can't trust me."

"Wrong? How are they wrong?"

"They're...perverse. Compared to my usual thoughts."

"Do you mean they're sexual?"

"Some, yes. Naturally. But there's more to it. Like I said, they're...possessive."

"Sherlock, you have to understand that what you're feeling is perfectly normal."

"No, it can't be. How can it be? My thoughts are irrational. They're not me. Of the times I allowed myself to indulge in the thought of you, I became strongly affected when considering the possibilities of your endeavors."

Ah. Now Irene understood. She placed her hand under his chin, silently asking him to face her. He did. "Endeavors? What kind of endeavors?"

"Endeavors of the pleasure-seeking kind. With…other people." Even saying the words made something dark flash in his eyes, and Irene's lips curled into a smirk.

"You're jealous."

She expected him to deny it, but he only pulled her closer and rested his forehead against hers. "Extremely." One hand slid up her back to augment his statement. "Things turned murderous in the Heart Palace."

"The Heart Palace?" Irene frowned as she mimicked his movements and marveled at the small, contented sigh he released at her touch.

"Yes. It's a conceptual place much like the Mind Palace that I've dedicated to sentimental matters."

"And do I have a room there?"

"Mmm, you might have a wing."

"A whole wing?"

"Yes. It was crowding up the Mind Palace, as were all the other distracting, mushy things, so I had to move it."

"How does it look?"

"Grand. Pretentiously royal. There's silk everywhere. Most of the walls are lined with crown-molding. And there's red. Lots of red. Maybe because the color suits you."

His voice was getting dangerously low.

"Is there a closet?"

"Yes. I tried to pick the outfits that fit your taste. Can't remember them all now, but none had a price tag with less than three digits."

Irene stood on her toes so that she could give his cheek a kiss. "All women love being spoiled like that, you know. I've no idea what you were talking about. You seem to be very conscious of my needs. Mentally, at least."

"Oh, I am."

A chill went up Irene's spine. Oh, this was definitely dangerous.

"You're not exactly around for me to be able to ask you what you like, but I improvise. I'm pretty confident in the choices I've made to make you happy."

"I'm here now. I wouldn't mind if you tested out your theories. Really." Irene shut her eyes and wrapped both hands around his neck as his simultaneously locked around her hips. She was sure they were talking about something important a moment ago, but she couldn't bring herself to remember.

As if he was reading her thoughts, he said, "We've digressed."

Irene sighed. "I think that whole feud we had just now was the digression. This is starting to go as I had originally intended it to."

He pulled away so that he could look at her. "I need to know if you understood what I said."

Irene wanted to laugh again, because he really was so clueless.

"Yes. I did. And I told you that I can handle you. Give me your worse and remember that I used to scold people for a living."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I've vacillated between allowing you in and sending you away and decided while changing a few minutes ago that the latter option was the most suitable. But I didn't expect for you to respond this way. I thought you'd protest but eventually be angry enough at my indifference to follow my advice."

"Well, you weren't exactly indifferent, were you?"

"Yes, the plan did go awry. Indifferent with you? Never. It's an impossible task. Especially when you start pulling at my sympathies with those damned tears. After I figured out your password, I actually had a bizarre image of running back to reassure you that I was never planning on putting you in danger. It was a ridiculous thought, of course, and I immediately threw it away. That's what I mean. I'm becoming irrational. The point is, though, I should've thought this through. Now everything's out in the open, you're foolish enough to still be here, and I'm selfish enough to let you stay."

"No, you're not. You're not just acting on your needs, but mine as well. That's not selfish. I don't want to leave because I'm telling you you can't surprise me or scare me off. In fact, I dare you to try. Because I know you're a good man, Sherlock. A good man who just happens to have a sexy brain. You being jealous is perfectly normal." She paused. "I was jealous too, certain times."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in interest. "Really?"

"Yes. I thought of you being with other women. Then I made very bad plans about how I could sabotage their relationship with you and everyone that was to follow. I reduced them to tears and made nasty threats too."

"How terribly wicked of you."

"From what you tell me, you're just as bad."

Sherlock pressed the phone in his hand more forcefully against her hip as he leaned into her, his mouth by her ear. "Surprisingly, I find that incredibly…sexy."

"Really? Like being wanted?"

"By the person I want, obviously."

His lips connected with her neck and she let out a sharp sigh. "Sherlock."

"Yes?" he mumbled through another kiss on the area just below her jaw line, the gaiety of his voice suggesting he was very well aware of what his rumbling tone was doing in combination with his lips.

Irene dug her nails into his back as he traveled down to her collarbone and up to her jaw again, letting herself drown in the sensation for what seemed like several long minutes. Nothing but the sound of their breathing sounded throughout the flat, and the silence was so relaxing she thought she wouldn't mind doing this forever.

He stopped by her lips, pulling back with an unsure look in his eyes.

"Did you mean what you said?" he said quietly. "About this being…normal? About people hurting each other?"

"Yes," Irene replied. "I did."

"And do you-" She saw him swallow the rest of his sentence but finished it in her mind and stroked the side of his face, gazing deep into his eyes.

"I do."

He nodded and licked his lips. "I…I…also…"

"Mr. Holmes, do you need a moment? You're not being very eloquent."

Eyes half hooded and lips parted, he barely managed one more word before descending on her lips. "Yes."

The world stopped spinning. When he kissed her, he did it with unrestrained fervor, and one of his hands went sliding up her shirt, the other grasping her face. She latched on to his hair with one hand and to his shoulder with the other, and the faster their lips meshed together, the stronger his body pushed against hers. Soon enough, he had pinned her against the wall and enveloped her whole.

When the nails of her hand went grazing down his chest, he let out a low moan, and his hands began to fumble with the fabric of her shirt as she began unbuttoning his. Soon enough, both articles of clothing had dropped to the floor, and she wound his legs around him so that he was carrying her full weight. He made a blind stumble to his bedroom, crashing into a rack of test tubes at the foot of the kitchen entrance, which shook but didn't fall, unlike the framed painting that hung on the wall that he had cornered her against. He only bothered to be careful with her camera phone when he set it down on the bedside table before he allowed them both to resume discarding the rest of the clothes with shaky impatience until they were wrapped around each other with skin flush against skin.

She kissed him places he had never been kissed or had any desire to be kissed until he met her, the Woman who defied all the odds in his life. He kissed her places he was fascinated induced the same pleasured sigh out of her that he'd been listening for during the days she send him those texts, except it was much more erotic in real life, as he confirmed by making pleased sounds of his own.

When they finally broke all barriers and came together in the most intimate of places, the flames licking at their skin turned into scorching blue and set alight the pleasure coursing through their veins. They were powerless to stop their choked breaths and ferocious clash of lips and racing of their hearts. The intensifying heat served to speed up the chemical processes that heighten their ecstasy, and when they both reached the peaks of their orgasm, they simultaneously cried out each other's names. He collapsed against her, totally incapacitated after the final wave of his climax had hit him, and to exhaust the last of his fuel, he pressed kisses against her neck as she pulled on his hair and breathed her satisfaction into his ear.

He rolled off of her eventually, keeping one arm wrapped around her and his face pressed against her shoulder. They didn't say anything, letting the passion that transpired settle and melt into a blissful silence.

After their breathing had returned to a regular pattern again, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Well that was the most scandalous I've ever been during dinner."

He felt Irene's lips curl into a smirk against his chest. "Really, where were your table manners? You're never supposed to show how ravenous you are by eating so viciously. Perhaps it's my fault; I've teased you with the promise of a meal more than I've actually fed you. Then again, you never accepted my invitations when I offered them."

"To my deepest regret now I must say," Sherlock rasped and cleared his throat to show clearly how much he was affected.

Irene laughed, knowing he was putting on an act, and the edges of his own lips twitched, though he tried to maintain his overwhelmed expression by widening his eyes and parting his mouth as if needing to breath.

"You've left me wholly incapacitated, Ms. Adler. Someone needs to teach you table manners as well."

"Well, it's my job to say, 'Hell with the rules.' You, on the other hand- you're a good man. Very obedient. It's why all this caught me off guard."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't follow the rules. Nor have I ever been obedient. I've broken laws, numerous that Mycroft still holds against me and numerous that I've never allowed him to because he might incarcerate me if he ever knew. Hardly obedient."

"Those aren't the rules I'm talking about. Your brother is a rule-follower, but do you think I'm admiring that quality? I mean that you do the right thing."

Sherlock didn't miss the implication that she didn't, and he said just as much.

"I've done more wretched things than I can count, Sherlock."

"I think your reasons are noble."

"If you looked at this objectively, you wouldn't say that."

Sherlock was about to retort and defend his skills of objectivity, but he held back, remembering why he refused to feed her the same lie before. So he moved his hand against her back in circles and muttered, "You don't have to be that woman anymore. You're free. I've guaranteed it."

She laced her fingers with his and looked directly at him with her piercing blue eyes. "I know. And I'm grateful."

He leaned down, cupped her cheek, and, for a few minutes, they engaged in deep, languid kisses that were free of the desperation and carnal desire of a few moments ago, the foundation instead being something more profound, something that tugged gently at both their heartstrings and allowed the peripheries of their souls to graze together.

She broke away first and yawned, and the sight of her sleepiness made his eyes heavy. He slid further down the bed and pulled her closer, and after a few more minutes of the same kisses, they mumbled fond "Goodnights" against each other's lips and let the night take them with bodies locked together like two strong chains- once separate but brought together by a magnetic force that only grew stronger and held the world together.

* * *

She woke up first the next morning to Sherlock's touchingly undisturbed face.

Sometime during the night, he had adjusted to lie on his side, removing one arm from around her but keeping the other bound with her hand.

His features were softer when he was asleep, clear of the deep frown that often graced his face when he was in deep concentration, which was always, and of the hard edges around his lips when he felt undignified, superior, or frustrated, or some combination of all three. The white light of the sun made his face look angelic and complemented the pale pinkness of his parted lips. They look slightly dry just now, but Irene resisted the urge to make her lips their balm, knowing she would disturb the placidity, something he rarely had the chance to have.

So, carefully, she eased her hand out of his and climbed out of bed. She instantly felt soreness in her muscles and attributed it to the previous night's activities. She smiled. It was a welcome pain, one she missed having.

With cautious footfalls, she slipped out of the room and headed to the bathroom. She took a moment to observe herself in the mirror and fondly traced the red and purple marks Sherlock branded into her skin. Then, she stepped into the shower and let the steaming hot water sooth her rusty muscles and wash away the dried sweat and tears, leaving her feeling rejuvenated when she finished. Without hesitation, she slipped into Sherlock's silk blue robe.

She ambled to the kitchen and scoured the cabinets and fridge for something to eat. Because of all the calories she burned yesterday, she had worked up quite an appetite. It came as no surprise when the only acceptable thing she found were a pair of apples stacked away in the far corner of a cabinet. Even then, she was wary of whether its fresh appearance was trustworthy. For all she knew, Sherlock injected it with a lethal poison and had stashed it away so as to not let the artificial lighting damper with the effects.

She sighed and walked into the living room, deciding she'd wait till he was awake to make any decisions about eating.

Once again, she took a moment to look through all his belongings and stopped when she came upon a stereo sitting on the table. She had seen it before but hadn't given it a second thought. When she opened it, though, she saw a CD labeled "The Waltz" in black, unrefined script was inside, and, out of curiosity, she shut it and pressed play.

When it started playing, her breath caught in her throat at the realization that it was one of his violin pieces. She knew he played since she saw the violin and music sheets marked with his scratchy handwriting when she first visited the flat. The track was slow and calm, the high notes tingeing it with sweet melancholy. She put one hand against her lips, smiling but feeling a strange prickling in her eye, and wondered what it was meant to commemorate.

The track was short, and Irene took a seat by the table and pressed play again. It seemed even more stunning the second time she heard it, and she shut her eyes, picturing him standing by the window, caressing the violin and its bow in his hands and breathing life into its strings.

When the track ended she restarted it again and continued this process until she was humming the tune into the sleeve of his robe as she laid her head against her folded hands. She was so lost to the music that she jumped when a firm hand pressed against her back, but quickly relaxed, knowing it could only be one person.

Irene stopped the track and stood.

"Sleep well?" she said, folding her hands and trying not to laugh at the sight of Sherlock wrapped haphazardly in the bed sheet, something that had made a delightful first impression years ago.

"Given the abnormal amount of emotional laboring I had to go through yesterday which should've made me uneasy, I'm surprised to say the answer is 'yes'. I haven't had such a good night's rest in ages."

"Well, physical exhaustion may have ruled over the emotional exhaustion, and you're not used to the type of physical exertion you displayed yesterday, I'm sure."

Sherlock adjusted his bed sheet so that he could free his arms and run his fingers up and down her own. "Mmm, yes. I'm sore all over now, and in places I never would've guessed soreness could exist."

"See it as nothing but victory pain, there's a lad."

Sherlock ducked his head and placed a soft kiss against her lips."I do."

Irene closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against his. "You're an exceptional violinist, you know."

"Liked the track? It was for John and Mary. I played it at their wedding while they danced."

Irene opened her eyes. "Ah yes, I forgot John's married now. How much things have changed. How are things going for him?"

"There were a few bumps in the start but I think the road has smoothed over now. He's very happy. Perhaps I should mention there _was_ a literal bump."

"What do you mean?" Irene frowned. He waited till the realization dawned on her and widened her blue eyes. "Mary's pregnant."

"_Was _pregnant."

Irene stepped back. "John's a father."

"Yes."

"Right." Irene sighed. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"How has his married life treated _you?_ Or should I call it your divorced life?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Perfectly fine."

Irene expected him to avoid the subject, to flinch away from what the new players in John's life meant for their own relationship, but spotted honesty in his voice and face instead.

Giving a small nod, she said, "All right." After a pause of contemplation, she smiled and bit her lower lip. "I'm very curious now; how _did _that wedding go?"

Sherlock gave her a mischievous grin. "Marvelously."

With characteristic volubility, he began to detail the happenings of John's wedding, keeping an intentionally nonchalant tone when addressing his fumbles and speaking passionately of the details of all the cases. Irene couldn't suppress a laugh throughout most of the story and only turned serious when trying to connect the dots of the cases herself.

It was almost as if he was reciting the best man's speech again, until he came to the end, where everyone "got busy with the dancing."

"Who did you dance with?"

Neutrally, Sherlock answered, "No one." Irene spotted the way he averted his gaze from her own and her heart panged with sympathy. He _had _said he loved to dance.

"That's a shame."

"It's nothing. The chance comes rarely, that's all. I've managed without it thus far so it's nothing to mull over. Simply a missed opportunity. After that, I saw there was no purpose I could further serve and left."

"I see. Well, if it means anything, I would've gladly danced with you."

Something lit up in Sherlock's eyes. "Do you know how to?"

"I know the basics, but I'm not an expert, so you'd probably have to teach me."

Sherlock let out a breath of laughter. "What a concept." Then, his face suddenly turned serious, though a ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips. "What a concept indeed."

* * *

"Now put your left hand on my shoulder seam." Sherlock clasped Irene's right hand in his left and gently pressed against her shoulder blade to pull her closer. "Lift your elbows a bit higher. Good."

"This is change. I'm usually the one making the commands."

"Well until you learn how to do this properly, I'm the lead." Sherlock gave her a bragging grin.

"I have a steep learning curve, so this shouldn't take long."

"We'll see." Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his expression serious. "Now, keep in mind that the waltz adheres to a constant one-two-three rhythm. If you follow it, it'll help you fall into step."

"All right."

"You'll see what I mean once I show you the moves. Now, put your left foot back as I put my right foot forward."

She did.

"As I move my left foot to stand by my right, you do the same with your right foot. Yes, good. Like that."

"You know," Sherlock cocked his head to the side and gave her a look, "You may be a dominatrix, but you're also very good at following orders when you're compliant in attitude."

She lightly squeezed his arm. "Keep going or I'll lose my focus."

"All right. Let's simultaneously put our feet together. There. That completes those three steps. Now we switch roles and you make the same movements I did."

Irene let out a breath. "Right, so, I move my foot forward-"

"_Ouch._"

"Oh, sorry! I'm sorry. I forgot it had to be with the left foot." She couldn't stifle the smirk that crept up her lips.

Sherlock glared at her. "You did it on purpose."

"No I didn't."

"Don't lie to me, woman. I know your tricks. That was payback for the comment about your compliancy."

"A total accident." Irene made her expression serious with great effort. "I swear on my whip."

"Oh, that's serious. I should definitely believe you now, now that you've sworn on your disciplining plaything."

"You're proving a bad teacher, Mr. Holmes. If you really think I'm lying, you could punish me with said plaything later yourself. But you should finish the lesson first."

Sherlock heaved a long sigh. "Fine."

After a few more lessons and stumbles, Irene got the hang of it and was perfectly in sync with Sherlock's movements and one-two-threes. Once he felt confident enough in the flow of their dance, he turned on "The Waltz" and embraced her again so that they could continue.

As they danced, he added a few spins and dips which caught her off guard and made her laugh. She almost rolled her eyes when she saw his lip twitch as he watched her feet, knowing he wanted to point out how she wasn't stepping on her heel when she came forward. When she did it the right way the next time, he smiled in satisfaction and then looked up to find her watching him.

"Oh, don't bother trying not to ruin the moment. It's sweet, but you're so very bad at hiding it. Just correct me, or you'll be in danger of exploding by the time we're finished."

He look startled by her proclamation. "I'm not…hiding it. I wanted to see if you would fix your own mistake. And what moment? How would I be ruining it?"

"Well it wouldn't be very romantic if you acted all high-and-mighty and kept correcting me all the time." Her eyebrows rose as if to challenge him to say otherwise. "And this. This is a moment. We're doing something…" She sighed. "Never mind."

Sherlock frowned but didn't inquire further.

The track finished and Irene dropped her elbows, pressing herself against him and putting her chin on his shoulder. "Do you know how to slow-dance, Mister Holmes?"

He ran his hand down her back and tangled the other with her hair. "There's not much too it, is there?"

"No. But there's something charming in its simplicity."

"I suppose we could." He pulled away and held her at arm's length. "But waltzing music wouldn't be appropriate."

He let go of her and walked to a bookshelf standing against the wall. Sweeping the shelves with his eyes, his fingers excitedly strung invisible strings until he found was he was looking for and pulled it out of its place. It was a CD put inside a transparent case, and when he came forward to the table to place it in the stereo, Irene saw that it was labeled, "Wedding Songs".

"More music from John's wedding?"

"No." Sherlock turned after the CD was locked in place, his robe swishing behind him. "From my parents'."

He walked back to Irene and took her in his arms. "Now, shall we begin?"

His eyes were twinkling with the prospect of doing so.

She positioned herself so that her mouth was by his ear, one arm was drooping off his shoulder, and the other was holding his. "Let's."

As if on cue, the music started.

The slanting beams of sunlight pouring through the window suddenly dimmed, the twirling dust particles turning invisible. Irene instantly relaxed as Sherlock pulled her closer to his chest and she could hear his steady breathing beside her ear.

As they got into position, a melodious piano tune began to play. It was soon followed by a female voice, honey sweet and silvery.

_I'll be seeing you…_

_In all the old familiar places…_

Slowly, she and Sherlock began to sway side to side.

The song was an old jazz song. It sounded familiar, like the echo of some distant memory. Irene figured she must've heard it when she was little. Her mother would play jazz songs in the house all the time.

In fact…

"Is that…?"

"Billie Holiday," Sherlock confirmed.

Irene let out a small laugh. "I love her. She was one of my mother's favorites."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully in her ear. "My parents like her too. This was the song they danced to at the wedding."

Something fluttered in Irene's stomach at the words. She couldn't believe Sherlock would keep such a sentimental memento.

_I'll be seeing you…_

_In every lovely summer's day…_

It seemed that he was full of surprises. Irene liked him all the more for it. She would've never expected for him to enjoy dancing so much, let alone be so good at it. She debated whether it was a good idea to build his ego even further but eventually gave in and said, "You are an exquisite dancer."

She was sure he would reply with, "I know," or something that sounded even more pretentious but meant the same thing, but he only softly said, "Thank you."

She pulled away slightly so she could look at his face. His eyes had turned into a darker shade of green with the lack of sunlight but were warmer somehow. His countenance looked almost impassive, but then he focused in on her and leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers. It was a slow, loving kiss, so different from most of the kisses from the night before.

They parted and looked at each other, and Sherlock Holmes smiled an oddly happy smile. It was so strange to see it because he so rarely employed it. If he smiled, it was usually a manipulative or sarcastic smile. Sometimes it was an amused smile that came at the- mild and, in the long run, harmless, but nevertheless actual- suffering of others. But Irene knew these smiles were rare. She used to think his figurative walls and barriers were impregnable, but now his visage was sincere and unwavering in its admiration. She locked the image away in her mind so she could look back on it when she needed to. She wouldn't be seeing it for a while.

They pressed their foreheads together and danced like that until the track ended. Once it was completely silent, Sherlock said, "A new one will start soon. Do you want to continue?"

Before she could reply, the next track started, and Sherlock's smile widened even further.

He jumped back, bowed, and extended his hand to her. She took it, surprised but curious about the glee on his face.

But the biggest shock came when Sherlock's lips parted, and quietly, he began to sing along with the singer.

"_The very thought of you, and I forget to do…"_

Irene's eyes widened, and she laughed when he pulled her against him, clasped one of her arms, and began to sway them from side to side with lowers dips than before, in sync with the rhythm, leaning twice to each side.

_I'm livin' in a kind of a daydream…_

_I'm happy as a queen…_

She couldn't believe how he was so very like a child, but she was one too, because she tugged at one of his arms and he immediately understood that she wanted to do a spin.

_I see your face in every flower…_

_Your eyes in stars above…_

She did, and pulled back to him with a bit more strength than she intended, knocking the air out of him as he stepped back. She broke out into a fit of hysterical giggles at his frown, too drunk to stop despite how ridiculous she felt.

The singer was Billie Holiday again. Her voice soon faded away, and the hum of a trombone took its place, soon joined by the pleased whistle of the saxophone.

Irene never danced this much in her life. Judging from the pure joy on Sherlock's face, he hadn't either. At least not in a very long time.

They went on like that until all the songs on the track had played. Some were fun songs, some were melancholy, slow-dancing songs, like the first.

The moment was short compared with the rest of their lives. They didn't have nearly enough times where they had completely abandoned themselves to the present and didn't think ahead and didn't think back.

Irene thought of her sister, because there had been one day in the summer when they had done this. Turned on the music and clumsily danced throughout the house. Could it have been the same day as the flour day? Suddenly, it fit together, the music and the image of how they had turned the huge bag of flour in the kitchen on its side and threw the spilled contents at each other, staining each other's perfect pink cheeks and shiny, roughly trimmed hair. And they had laughed and laughed for ages, like Sherlock and Irene were laughing now, though in a more internal way.

Usually, thoughts of her sister led to more unpleasant ones about the possibility of never seeing her again. Somehow, they stayed at bay. Perhaps it had something to do with the laughter in Sherlock's eyes and the warmth of his breath as he mumbled love songs into her mouth.

There were no bad memories. Only them, only the old, quaint flat and the ethereal murmur of the music.

* * *

She flung off his blue robe and stood stark naked in front of the mirror just as Sherlock threw his phone aside and sighed, leaning his head back until his body was fully stretched out on the bed.

"Has Greg offered you a case?" she asked, slipping on her undergarments.

"Yes," he replied. "It's a five. Has potential to become a seven, though. I'll send John to look into it."

"Hmm. Is he your little servant?" Irene looked at Sherlock through the mirror with an amused expression.

He stretched his head up, and his mouth hung ajar involuntarily at seeing the light dance on Irene's scarlet lips. "It's a deal we made."

"Yes- before he has a wife and child to look after. You have to be a little more considerate."

Irene turned and came to the bed to get her stockings but kept her icy-blue gaze on Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes and sat up. "Oh _please. _I was like John's child, and he could juggle both me and the women he dated. This is no different."

"Well, you tell that to John, then."

She returned to the mirror and perched her leg up on the chair beside it so as to be more comfortable sliding into the stockings.

"Wait," Sherlock said. When she looked at him, he was looking intently at her leg.

"What?"

He looked to her, then back to her leg, then back to her again. "May I?"

Irene stopped fiddling with the bunched up fabric and lifted her head from its place on her knee. "If you'd like."

He climbed out of bed and slowly approached her. She thought he would get right to dressing her, but he kept his gaze to hers and grabbed one of her hands instead, placing it over his heart. "How long will you be gone?"

Irene pursed her lips for a moment. "A few months."

He didn't react, leaving her nothing to placate like she thought she might've needed to. Instead, he nodded and narrowed his eyes as he used his other hand to grab her wrist. "Arrange something with Mycroft. He'll help to reinstate you back in London."

"I will. But not for a while. You were right when you said I came early. It's still too risky. I rather arrange my return from a safe distance. I didn't come here just for you, of course, and actually needed to see a few acquaintances, who helped me with the paperwork. But there'll be less waiting time than before. Also, before I try to contact your brother, I think you should-"

"I'll talk to him. He'll be extremely peeved to hear you're alive. Well, I imagine he already is. But I'll talk him into it."

"It won't take much. He's very fond of you, despite the feud you like to pretend you're having."

"Yes, all right," Sherlock said, the annoyance mild in his voice. His fingers pressed against her wrist. "Your pulse still skyrockets, you know."

"I'm sure yours does too," Irene challenged, reaching for his hand. He pulled it away before she could wrap her fingers around it and dropped to his knees. He reached for the stockings and, slowly, began to pull it up her leg.

As the black fabric stretched up and lace patterns began to decorate her skin, it lightened in color. Sherlock leaned forward and began to plant soft kisses on the spots he subsequently covered. All the while he maintained eye contact.

Irene watched him with a faint smile on her lips, unable to frown and unable to fully beam because she knew that, in a few minutes, she would be leaving, and the image of him she would cling to would be indefinite. Still, what had transpired left her content and sated in ways she hadn't been in a long time, and months was nothing compared to years. Even if she can back to sporadic, covert meetings, a relationship most would say they could never weather, she would be happy. It was more than she could have ever asked for when her life had crumbled beneath her feet and she turned into a child fighting to survive instead of a child trying to live. And she lived with Sherlock Holmes. By God, she lived.

He reached for her other leg and begin to repeated what he had done. Irene let out a pleased sigh. "I'm surprised. You're not afraid of intimacy at all, though that's what you let other people think."

"Yes, because intimacy with other people doesn't interest me."

"Fair enough."

He stood once he was finished and straightened his shoulders. "I think you're ready then."

She was still only clad in her undergarments and stockings.

"As much as I'd like to step out like this, I hardly think it'd be discrete. I'll be shot at the doorstep."

"I meant you're ready for the clothes I've picked out for you."

"You prepared clothes?"

"About a year ago, yes. A case brought me to an outlet and something caught my eye because I thought it was your style."

He said this matter-of-factly and hopped out of the room before she could ask him about it further.

Irene waited until he returned with a long, zipped up bag hanging on a coatrack.

She folded her hands as he unzipped it.

Out he pulled a sleek, burgundy wrap dress with short sleeves and a figure-hugging design. Above the left breast was small broach shaped like a rose that glimmered with white light.

Irene came forward and fondly stroked it with her manicured nails. "It's gorgeous. And the rose…" She touched the broach. "It's because of last year, isn't it?"

"I knew it was you the moment I saw it. The smell pervaded the whole hospital room."

"Had to pay respects in a noticeable way. You might've misunderstood."

"Yes, I suppose I dismiss it at first…" He trailed off as she unlatched the dress from its place and moved to the mirror to put it on.

He watched her slide into it and was happy to see the size was still right. Once she had put her hands through the sleeves, he walked over and helped her with the zipper.

"Oh no, no." Irene pouted. "This won't do. Going out naked would be much safer."

Sherlock looked at her reflection and saw that she was right. She was so...noticeable. It fit her perfectly- not just in the physical sense, but in color, too. It was in harmony with her dark brown hair and served as a darker, calmer echo of her red lipstick. The broach sparkled in the light coming from the lamp and went with the glint in her eyes. She looked better than he imagined she would, and the realization hit him with a rush of feelings that all urged him to keep her there longer. But that couldn't happen.

Before he could think on it further, Sherlock quickly said, "I'll give you my coat, and you can take it off when you think it's safe."

She turned to him and gave him a kiss. "Thank you. For everything."

She told him she didn't expect him to accompany her past the door of 221B, and he didn't object or question it. She had entered his world through that door, and it was only appropriate that she leave through it. Though he suspected she actually came in through the window, not the door. Unimportant. He meant it in the metaphorical sense. She didn't need to use the window now because it was night time. It would be much more complicated to scale her way down the building, and the dark would cover her enough.

They were at the door now, and she was pressing one of the coats he owned tighter to her body with a belt.

"Give John my love, will you? And Mary, though she doesn't know me yet. I think we'd get along swimmingly, judging from what you've told me. Oh, and of course, the baby. I bet she's a darling."

"Oh, God, you're just like the rest of them. Can't imagine why you'd bother getting affectionate over a thing that only secretes and whines all day."

"Oh, but you adore that child."

"Well of course I do, it's _John's _child."

He attempted to maintain a frustrated expression, but upon meeting her gaze, he snorted and she followed suit.

"If only the press could hear this. Tomorrow's headlines: 'Sherlock Holmes infatuated with John Watson's child. Could he be the real father? Mary Watson refuses questioning'."

"Oh, shut it. She's an exception."

"Right."

And suddenly, like the cool that passes over the Earth when a cloud sets itself under the Sun, there was nothing they could use to distract themselves from the goodbye.

Sherlock cleared his throat and put on a stern expression. "It's cold outside, so don't take off the coat."

"I can't. The dress, remember?"

"Mmm. Right."

Irene stepped away from the door and put a hand on his face. "Sherlock-"

Not letting her finish her sentence, Sherlock grabbed her by her shoulders, took a moment to look at her face, and kissed her. Though the movement was brisk and bold, the kiss wasn't. He gently brushed his lips over hers and allowed her to deepen it by wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer. She granted full passage to the inside of her mouth, and he did the same. The openness increased the fervency and speed of the kiss though lost none of the longing of the slower, softer one.

When they broke apart, they were both gasping for breath. They stayed in each other's arms until they felt steady.

Irene was the first to speak as she peered up at him with slightly widened eyes, pupils enlarged and the blue rims around them glowing. "Sayonara, then, Mr. Holmes."

"Au revoir, Ms. Adler." Sherlock gave her one more short kiss before letting her go.

She opened the door, and the cool night air swept in, making goose bumps run up both their backs.

She looked back one last time and gave him a small smile. "I'm glad we had dinner."

And with that, she was gone.

* * *

"You're alive. Would you look at that." John raised his eyebrows as he placed the groceries Sherlock had ordered on the kitchen counter, having to gingerly push away some petri dishes so they could fit.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, not looking at his best friend so he could keep his hands-steepled-under-chin pose intact.

"Well, you were visited by Irene Adler. How did that go?"

"Fine." Sherlock's tone was passive.

"'Fine?' Just fine? Why am I finding that hard to believe?"

"Because you're a romantic who probably imagined some kind of shootout transpired like in that crap telly regular, 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith,' and only because both of us are capable of handling a gun and have some grudges against each other."

"And some weird, wild passion too, if I recall the movie correctly. Didn't that shootout end in-"

"Oh _enough _about the movie- it was only an example." Sherlock felt his face warm and gave up on his meditating pose to walk to the living room. "Now, onto more urgent matters. Lestrade offered me a case yesterday. It's good."

John quickly forgot about the movie, his interest piqued at the possibility of a new case. "How good?"

"We hadn't had a ten in ages, as I recall."

"We've…never had a ten. You're joking."

"No." Sherlock turned to him with a smile on his face. "Remember how we couldn't find any leads on Moriarty after his broadcast months ago? How there was no trace of him, as if he had actually died and never returned at all?"

"Well, we still don't know if that was him, do we? Could've been someone framing him."

"It's him. Lestrade said they've found his best hitman. And he's all the proof we need."

"Didn't you say you got rid of all his hitmen?"

"To call this man simply a 'hitman' would be an insult to his rank in Moriarty's network. He's his top assistant. A right-hand man. Someone he wholly trusts."

"What's his name?"

Sherlock turned to the window and looked down at Mycroft's figure exiting his car. He saw the details waiting to be said in the deep frown etched in his brother's forehead, and his stomach flipped.

With a deep breath, Sherlock replied, "Sebastian Moran."

* * *

As Irene stepped past the threshold and into the private jet, she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her coat, the blast of air-conditioning making her cold.

Her fingers brushed against something in the left pocket, and she frowned. That coat had been put away among several of the others Sherlock hadn't used. Why would there be anything in it?

She took the object out and saw that it was a small white sheet of paper, folded over and over until it became a white square.

As she walked to her seat, she began to unfold it. She sat down just as she saw what was written on it.

_A safe line. _

She turned it over, and on the other side was a number.

The private jet wasn't to depart for another hour. She could still make a call.

Too curious to resist, she took out her phone and dialed the number. She took a few deep breaths before pressing ENTER, feeling apprehensive because she wasn't sure what to expect.

One ring.

It couldn't be Sherlock's number. She already had it.

Two rings.

John's, maybe?

Three rings.

He _had_ wanted her to call Mycr-

"Hello?"

Irene froze.

"Irene, is- is that you?"

A shaky breath. A grasp at the arm of her seat to keep herself steady.

She counted to three before replying.

"Amy?"

* * *

**_Thank you all for reading._**

**_This fic was based on a prompt given to me by my dear friend, Elise. Naturally, this fic is dedicated to her. Fur Elise. Thank you so much, my friend, for waiting so patiently for this fic to finally be finished. I hope you found it to your liking._**


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